


Undefined

by grydo2life



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M, ccbingo, coulson has feelings, let's beat up clint!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 17:16:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grydo2life/pseuds/grydo2life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not unfamiliar to him, this strange protectiveness he feels for the archer. It’s also not something they talk about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undefined

**Author's Note:**

> For ccbingo Round 1: Bathing together.
> 
> (Half of this may or may not have been written when I was half-asleep and running off of too much caffeine. I apologize if it shows ._. Also, the person I call my beta is either still asleep or at work, and I'm impatient, so there may be spelling and/or grammar issues. Just FYI.)
> 
> Enjoy~

Generally, when all is said and done and the dust clears, it tends to fall to Phil to clean up whatever mess remains in the aftermath. What this entails typically depends on who he’s working with. 

Anything involving Stark generally involves bribery, threats, and a few well-placed electromagnetic bursts to take care of straggler paparazzi. Steve is the easy one; all Phil ever has to do there is find a camera to stick him in front of, and the all-American smile and earnest speeches generally take care of the rest.

There’s a whole _division_ dedicated to cleaning up the Hulk’s disasters, something that came about after Phil bluntly threatened Fury with mutiny if the Director didn’t start funneling resources into easing that particular burden. Natasha never leaves behind enough to warrant clean-up, and Clint…

Well, Clint is special. As such, his messes tend to be special too.

“Don’t fall asleep.” Phil reminds the archer, arms crossed as he keeps a careful vigil from where he leans against the sink of the small, cramped bathroom.

In the tub, Clint peeks open an eye at him, and one corner of his lips twitch, but otherwise, he doesn’t respond. He’s got blood in his hair, grime and dirt caking his skin in all the places the water hasn’t touched yet, and even some that it has, but there’s an edge of bone-tired exhausted to him that suggests he won’t be doing anything about it of his own volition. 

“’mnot,” Clint slurs at him. A complete lie; he’s already starting to doze off again. Phil lets him, though, because some of that blood is Clint’s and there are fresh stitches in the dry arm that’s dangling over the edge of the tub and Clint just spent six hours in enemy hands while Phil systematically tore apart half an underground facility trying to get him back. And now they’re in a crappy motel just outside of town and evac probably won’t be for another twelve hours at least.

(Sometimes, Phil wishes that Clint would hold off on getting abducted until those missions where backup is actually an option.)

So instead of rousing him and urging him out before he drowns, Phil begins working apart the buttons of his shirt. His jacket and tie were lost sometime between the time he entered the complex and the time he dragged Clint out. For once, he’s grateful for it; less layers means less time. 

“Stand up,” he tells Clint, not an order but not a request either. 

Clint grunts, eyes fluttering, and if the sight of his superior stripping startles him at all, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he gives a slow grin that melts into a groan as he struggles to comply. “Fuck,” he grumbles when he’s finally up, slumping against the wall tiredly. “Can’t we just do this lying down?”

“The water is filthy; you’ll get an infection.” Phil reaches down and tugs out the stopper, waits until the water has drained mostly away before turning on the shower. He waits until the temperature is to his satisfaction before readjusting the nozzle and stepping in as well. 

Clint tosses him what would, under normal circumstances, be a leer; coupled with the tired look in his eyes and slump to his shoulders, it just looks fond. “Well, this is inappropriate.”

Phil actually snorts. “We’ve had sex in an elevator to maintain cover, and _this_ is where you draw the line?”

Clint laughs. “I didn’t say I wanted you to leave.”

That is probably the closest thing Phil will get to a request for help. He takes it, reaches out for Clint’s good arm and wraps steady fingers around one wrist. Clint sort of falls into him, too tired for protesting or bravado, and tucks his head into the junction where Phil’s shoulder meets his neck, nose just brushing Phil’s pulse point. It’s sweet, vaguely plaintive, and Phil holds him up like Clint’s weight is familiar in his arms. 

It ends up being more of a glorified sponge bath. Phil keeps their upper bodies out of the water, mindful of the stiches he applied not an hour earlier, and instead uses a washcloth to clean the younger man. With exaggerated care, he wipes away dirt and dust and blood to reveal bruises and cuts and, rarely, unmarred skin.

Each new injury that he uncovers makes something unpleasant curl within him, and Phil internally wishes he’d been just a little less efficient, a little more cruel, in his dispatching of the people that did this. 

When he finishes, the cloth is discarded, the water shut off. Phil dries them both while Clint unhelpfully clings to him, and when the agent tries to coax him into moving, receives a mumbled protest into the skin of his shoulder.

“You’ll be more comfortable in the bed.”

“’m comfortable _now_.” Phil huffs out a laugh and manhandles Clint anyway, grateful for the tiny size of their room.

It takes exactly seven steps to reach the bed, another three of maneuvering for Phil to get Clint under the covers, and then five long strides to round the other side and slide in beside him. Clint fits against him almost as if on instinct, twisting onto his side so that Phil can wrap arms around him and then pressing his nose against that same spot as earlier. He lets out a soft, content sigh when he’s settled, and Phil presses lips against his forehead under the guise of shifting his neck.

It’s not unfamiliar to him, this strange protectiveness he feels for the archer. It’s also not something they talk about. 

Their relationship is not some fragile thing that needs words; it is something defined by late nights on Phil’s office couch when there is too much paperwork and too little, by Clint hiding in the air duct outside of Phil’s office with a nerf bow on days when Phil’s left eye is twitching more than usual, by invasions of personal space and brief touches that are second nature and never unnoticed, and by the coffee mug that reads ‘World’s Greatest Boss’ that Phil uses just to see the way Clint’s eyes crinkle in delight. 

It is founded on the implicit trust that Phil will storm underground facilities without backup and Clint will toss himself off of roofs without so much as a second thought, and on the constant knowledge that sooner or later they will fall into some category that will require too much paperwork and maybe a ring for good measure. 

It is, Phil thinks, exactly what he wants. And when he looks at Clint’s sleeping face, unguarded and vulnerable in ways that no one else ever gets to see, he knows the feeling is mutual, and he knows that _this_ will always be worth the special messes that Clint Barton leaves in his wake.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Maintaining Cover](https://archiveofourown.org/works/505754) by [MontanaHarper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MontanaHarper/pseuds/MontanaHarper)




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